


A Fight to the Death

by riventhorn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Ygraine's death, Tristan de Bois comes to challenge Uther.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fight to the Death

“Uther! Damn you, answer me!” 

The guards on the gate shifted uncomfortably, peering down at the knight on the road below them. His black cloak hung sodden from the rain that had been pelting down all afternoon. He wore no helmet, and his fair hair was plastered to his skull. 

“Come and face me, you coward!”

The guards glanced at Sir Geraint, standing nearby. “The king has been notified,” he said. “Until we receive further orders, it is best to ignore this commotion. He can do no harm yelling and beating his fists upon our door.”

Geraint rested his hands on the wall, looking downwards at Tristan de Bois. He had never seen Ygraine’s brother, for she and Uther had wed at her home, and he had missed the festivities, being left on duty at the castle here. Since then, neither of her brothers had been to visit her. Rumor held that both of them disliked Uther and had opposed the marriage.

He could see the likeness, though. The same blond hair and wide, full eyes. A pang of grief struck his heart, for he would never again see those features on his queen, flushed with the bloom of life. She lay in the catacombs beneath the castle now, cold in her grave. 

*

“He is mad with grief, sire,” Gaius said. He kept his eyes on the king, but Uther had seen the disapproving frown when he first came in the room and took in the empty wine pitchers and Uther’s unshaven, unwashed visage. 

“He demands that you confront him,” Gaius continued. “I think it would be more prudent if I went and spoke with him, sire.”

“No.” Uther’s voice rasped in his throat, and he coughed. “No, I will go and face him. He is nothing more than a boy playing at being a man.”

“But, sire, if he should challenge you—”

“Let him. There has long been ill feeling between us. I should have called him to account long ago for the slanderous lies he spread about me.” Uther let the old anger flow over him, a respite from the dull throb of grief. He well remembered what Tristan had said about him, whispering in Ygraine’s ear, trying to turn her heart from him.

“Sire,” Gaius paused, helpless. “Sire, he was her _brother_.”

“And what does that mean now?” Uther demanded, standing and beckoning for his servant to attend him. “Perhaps it is a mercy to send him to her, to free him from the barren world around us. Or mayhap he will prove the victor, and it is I who will find peace in death and her companionship once more.”

He had never voiced the thought aloud, although it had hovered in his mind often enough since the night he held Ygraine’s body in his arms and wept over her. Gaius looked stricken. 

“You do not mean that, sire. What of your son?”

He had hardly seen the babe since its birth. Babies were the province of women, and besides, every time he set eyes on the child, he could only think of Ygraine’s agonized cries and the blood-stained cloths that could not prevent her life from draining away. 

And now Tristan came, daring to disturb his mourning, daring to claim that it was _his_ fault that Ygraine had died. Tristan was a sniveling coward, no better than that snake Agravaine. 

Suddenly it came to him that the two of them had a claim on the kingdom through Arthur. As his uncles, they might try to assert a right to see the boy, to rule through him should Uther die. And Uther had no doubt that they would do with Arthur as they had with Ygraine—attempt to poison him against his king and father, breeding treason in his very house. After all he had done to build this kingdom, all the sacrifices that had been made, including Ygraine’s life, he could not let that be the result. He must fight. And he must win.

The hotness of his anger and sorrow abruptly cooled, leaving an iron resolve in their wake. Arthur would be his and his alone. He would allow no other to lay claim to the boy’s affections. 

He lifted his arms, allowing his servant to strap on his armor. He would keep the House of Pendragon free from such corrupt influences. And perhaps one day, he might be able to bring his daughter home as well. Never to acknowledge openly, but she was his, too, and he had always fought fiercely for what was his by right. 

*

When it was done, he went to see Arthur. He still wore his armor, but the bloody sword had been taken away to be cleaned. 

When Tristan’s body had slumped into the mud, sword tumbling from his limp fingers, he had felt briefly sorry, if only because he knew Ygraine had loved her brother. Uther had told him that he would put him to rest next to his sister, and he would honor that promise, even though Tristan had spat at his feet and called him a whoreson bastard, last in a long line of petty tyrants, not good enough to grovel at Ygraine’s feet, let alone marry her. 

The babe was in his cradle, asleep, a nurse alongside. She moved out of the way when Uther entered. After bowing, she went to stand quietly in the corner. Uther sat down in her stead and looked at his son and saw again the expression on Tristan’s face as he fell, young and surprised.

“It is no easy road to be a king,” he told his son, keeping his voice soft so as not to wake him. “But I will see to it that you have the strength to bear it.”


End file.
